From Ash and Snow
by ALollie
Summary: Post TRF. Sherlock left London to dismantle Moriarty's criminal network, but the stress leads him to relapse back into his old cocaine habit. Can John pull his friend from a hell of his own making, or the Sherlock John knew and loved be lost to his addiction? no slash, just brotherly love. I am VERY new at this so reviews and ideas are helpful and welcomed! T for drugs and language
1. Chapter 1

A shuddered breath. It was always the anticipation, not the actual sting of the needle itself, and even that was more of a comfort than actual pain. It was familiar, like an embrace from an old friend.

His actions had been called up from the depths of his Mind Palace, and implemented them flawlessly: the purchase, the measuring, the purifying, the injection. _Oh the injection_. The climax of it all.

But he paused now, as he did each time before a hit, and thought

_What would John think of me?_

But he silenced his own conscience by thinking:

_I am doing this because I need to. I need to focus, I need to concentrate. This only way to get back to John, and surely he will understand…_

Not very convincing he knew, but it was enough for him. Much easier to lie to himself than to actually admit the truth: he was back in the clutches of his cocaine addiction, and the scene he subconsciously took in around him was gut-wrenchingly familiar. He was squatting in an abandoned house in Southern France, staring at and slumped against cold dingy walls. His clothes, shoes, and other necessities were tossed against the far wall, hardly in the peripheral line of sight, but the cocaine…

The cocaine sat right in front of him. The bag of white power sat innocently to the side, the premixed solution front and center. The syringe lay inches from it at the ready, the tourniquet sat lazily on the edge of the table. He was only looking, but it filled his body with longing and made his finger itch and blood rush in anticipation of the drug. Yes, he was addicted again. But the lingering of his previous high made it difficult to care.

He was procrastinating sure, but he was Sherlock bloody Holmes! Moriarty's men couldn't outrun _him_, especially with his secret weapon. And besides, he needs to be rested…well that argument hardly made any sense, especially since he'd been maintaining an almost constant high. But…c'est la vie.

He picked up the needle, finding a suitable vein he got ready to inject the friendly poison.

_Don't you feel guilty?!_ Imaginary John screamed in his head.

"Of course I do," he scoffed aloud, his baritone voice piercing the silence. "But this'll take care of it…"

And with that, he pushed the plunger down, drowning out any further objections Imaginary John might have had, and awaiting the guaranteed burst of artificial happiness that would plague him soon.


	2. Chapter 2

_Damn_, he thought. After hours of a blissful cocaine high, he had finally come back down to Earth. But the crash itself was hell.

His head throbbed and his mouth was dry. What had been perfect, beautiful numbness radiating through the detective's body was rapidly being replaced by shards of glass ripping him open from the inside out. He knew he wasn't dying, but he could feel the boredom suffocating him. He looked at the minefield of track marks on his arm in disgust. _Why the hell did I ever start this?_ He thought, and not for the first time. Even as the words formed in his head he knew it was a stupid question. He knew why, he remembered _why._

* * *

Back in University, his first year. His roommate had just transferred out after finding him dissecting a snake on the table in their kitchenette. He hadn't even heard James come in, until…

"What the _hell_!?"

"Oh, good. You're back, did you bring me my cigarettes?" He could see James make a face in the corner of his eye.

"Here, take your crummy cigarettes."

He held out his hand. James threw them at him instead of putting them in his hand. Sherlock glared at him until he looked away sheepishly and went into the bathroom. He normally wouldn't stop what he was doing for a smoke, but after starting in grade 8, he was up to almost 2 packs a day, and only recently had he admitted to himself that he may have a slight addiction to nicotine. Damn James for throwing his damn cigarettes, now he had to get up to get them. Didn't mean he was happy about it.

He angrily threw his scalpel down and scraped his chair across the floor. HE stomped across the room and snatched up the pack, not even bothering to remove his gloves. Only when he was about to put the cigarette to his lips did he realize it was probably unsanitary, and only then did he pull one off. James reemerged from his room. _New shirt, 59 euros; good leather shoes; approximately 20 minutes spent on hair; body spray and deodeant but no cologne so..._

"You're going to a party."

"Stop doing your freaky, mind-reader stuff on me. Yeah, I'm going to a party. So?" James looked at Sherlock. He couldn't read anyone's life story in one glance like his odd roommate, but he could tell Sherlock had probably never been to a party in his life. And he was right.

"Hey, um, Sherlock..? Do you, uh, want to come with me? To the party, I mean?"

Sherlock looked at him curiously, then hopefully, the suspiciously. Why in the _hell_ would _James _invite _him _to a _party_? No one liked him, so even if he went with James, he'd probably end up standing awkwardly by himself in a dark corner while James and his friends didn't give him a second thought, unless they needed a sober driver. No, no party. But James was looking at him like some pitiful dog he was about to leave at home. How dare he? _I don't need a party, I don't need friends, I don't need anyone or anything and I certainly don't need _pity, he thought the last word with disgust. As always however, there was a tiny inkling of _maybe that stuff wouldn't be so bad…_but the last thing he needed to do was put his heart into something or worse, someone, and have them kick and spit on it. And the second to last thing he needed was for James to think he was thinking all this, so he simply said:

"No."


	3. Chapter 3

It was because he was bored. Always because he was bored. Boredom was the vacuum that was ever present in his mind. When he didn't have anything to keep him busy and grounded in his mind it would suck him in. And the vacuum…terrible things happened in the vacuum.

Because the vacuum was hardly a vacuum at all, but more of a dumping ground. A landfill. That little recycling bin icon on a computer screen where people put things that they did not want to see. Things that were supposed to be deleted…

_Homework: dull_. _Dissection: complete. _HE could hear the vacuum beckoning him. So many things he had DELETED! _Childhood, Adolescence, every name he was ever called, every trivial fact of mundane human life that other people drowned in everyday…_he needed something to do!

He looked over at his recently acquired skull. Seemed like a good enough company. It never judged him, or abused him, or called him a freak. But even Sherlock had to admit it was rather pathetic that his only friend was a remnant of a human who had once had real friends, probably.

James looked at him, and that was when he remembered he was still there.

"Are you sure you don't want to go to the party?" James inquired, making for the door.

_Well I'm not doing anything…I _don't need friends! _I just need something to do, an experiment. No emotional attachment to the outcome if it turns out to be a disaster, which is statistically inevitable…_

"I've changed my mind. I will come."

"Smashing! Er, are you going to change?" James asked, surveying Sherlock's attire.

"No. Shall we?" Sherlock said, bustling past a puzzled James and into the wind of the night.


	4. Chapter 4

_I hate this, _Sherlock thought.

For someone who noticed everything, a rave full of lights, people, loud music and a plethora of smells was not the place. HE felt like he was drowning in the deductions he was making. _Girl in the corner is cheating on her boyfriend with his sister. Boy on the turn-tables likes to dress up like a won=man at night. The bouncer is having marital issues and his son is…not a son._

It was enough to make him want to puke. As it was, however, he sat in a corner kicking himself for ever thinking this was a good idea. James had left him as soon as they arrived, and as he sat suffocating in the details of everyone else's lives, james was off in a corner, with not one but two girls.

Sherlock had never had much interest in girls. Well, not for anything other than experimental purposes. When he was in grade 9, a girl had kissed him on the cheek. He'd been sitting and reading an enthralling book on amphibians specific to the Thames, and she'd come and sit by him. He glanced at her. Wealthy, confident, a tease. He ignored her. Suddenly, he felt a hand on his. He looked up into the girls face. She was relatively plain, at first glance, but all of her plain features were…perfect. Round face, but flawless skin. Small mouth but perfect shade. Blue eyes, the only thing striking about her. Where his were pale, hers were dark blue. She grinned and kissed his cheek, then sat back and waited for his response. She probably thought he'd be too stunned to react. Instead, almost immediately after she had pulled away, he leaned forward and kissed her, on her lips, nudging her mouth open gently with his tongue. He experimented for a few seconds until he knew what she liked, then he employed just that, and pulled away, studying her face. She looked at him like he was the very sky above them. Typical. He rolled his eyes and went back to his book.

Not that boys were all that much more interesting. He experimented with them in almost the same way. But neither sex was anything but a dull, unobservant, sack of flesh with a gender label. Thus, gender was irrelevant. Who cared who was what? The _mind_ was what mattered, and no one was hardly that interesting. Regardless, it hardly mattered to him.

All he wanted now was to leave. He had been sipping a drink, but it wasn't well made and wasn't all that good.

"Hey kid, you look like you're about ready to shoot yourself."

"Almost." He said, glancing at the source of the voice. _Scruffy jacket, but warm, so outside a a lot in all climates. Shoes well made, and for running. Jeans, common, cheap, irrelevant. Hands in pockets, protectively not nonchalantly. Drug dealer._

Sure enough, "I got something for that."

"Do you?" Sherlock asked, bored at how predictably careless this dealer was. Then again, he'd lived a rather sheltered life. It wasn't until his parents grew tired of him and shipped him off to boarding school that he'd even smelled a cigarette. _Could be interesting.._

"What do you got?"


	5. Chapter 5

"I've got uppers, downers, I have stuff to make you see things that aren't there and don't exist. Pick your poison." The dealer said, gesturing at his pockets.

They had gone outside to avoid anyone seeing. The dealer looked at Sherlock like he thought he would bolt, with his posh accent and well-made clothing, it was probably glaringly obvious Sherlock had never done drugs. He rolled his eyes. Who _cared_ if he'd never done them before, there's a first time for everything, and the secretive way this dealer was acting…made him all the more curious.

"Why would I want to see something that doesn't exist? Is this honestly how you push your product, with promises of unicorns and rainbows? I am not a six year old girl."

"Fine, no acid then. I've got cannabis…"

"You're selling me a plant? There's a florist down the street I'd happily go to instead, and I'm sure they are much better…_entrepreneurs._" He said the last word with as much condescending sarcasm as he could. This guy _must_ be a new dealer or _something._

"OH so you want hard shit? Are you sure? No offense, but a first time little poshling like you might have a bad trip, and we'd hate for Mummy and Daddy to find you about this, wouldn't we?"

The thought actually brightened his day. And lucky for the dealer it did, because Sherlock was getting so annoyed with his that he was considering not buying anything and calling the cops to boot. But maybe there was a silver lining. If he did get caught, great. But if he did…perhaps his parents might actually show him a little attention. Granted it would be of the negative variety, but that could give way to something better. And, in all honesty, anything was better than being ignored.

"Never mind, mate. Look, uppers, downers, or no deal?"

"What sort of stimulants do you have?" Why in the hell would he want something to dull his mind? If he did, he'd just get drunk like that one time at Mycroft's birthday party, although that had been mostly to embarrass him. Still…

"I've got Dexedrine, speed—that is to say, _amphetamines_, coke…"

"What is your cocaine cut with?" Sherlock asked, mostly just to see if the dealer even knew.

"I don't know man you want it or not?"

Sherlock sighed. _Idiot._ "Yeah I'll take some."

"50 quid, mac."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but handed over the money and got the cocaine in exchange. It looked so innocent. Soft white powder in a little plastic bag, the amount inside probably weighed no more than his wallet. All those teachers in school had made such a fuss over _this_? _This_ could ruin his life? HE laughed out loud. Nothing could ruin his life, it was shitty enough as it was, what with everyone being so boring, and even if it weren't, what could ruin his life but him?

He sat down, after looking up to see the shady dealer had left. _Good riddance,_ he thought, since the man was dumb as a post. He pulled a pound note from his billfold and set it aside. Next he pulled out his phone, and organized the cocaine in thin but neat lines across the surface. Taking the bill, he rolled it into a little tube and without hesitation, snorted every particle. _Ugh, how inelegant_, he thought, until he couldn't even think anymore, because an atomic bomb had gone off in his head.

* * *

**Guys, please don't forget to review! I'd really love some constructive criticism and even some ideas. Thanks so much! And also, for those of you who are just waiting for John to join the story, just be patient. I promise it's coming :)**


	6. Chapter 6

"Holy _shit_."

Sherlock looked around him, and suddenly the dingy alley was…beautiful. Not only that, but he wasn't feeling the familiar sense of being overwhelmed. He was normally drowning in unwanted deductions, but now…

In addition to feeling absolutely happy for _no reason whatsoever,_ he wasn't about to rip out his hair from all the unnecessary information. In his drugged state, he thought it might be just hallucinating that he wasn't suffocating. He decided to go into the club and see if it still worked.

Upon entering, he simply observed everyone without knowing all their secrets. He looked around, and only saw what he wanted to see. He was elated. Not only because of the chemically induced happiness, but because he was free of his gift and curse for a while. For once, he was only as much of a freak as he wanted to be.

"Hey, where have you been?" James came up to him, a fresh bruise on his neck. Sherlock looked him up and down. _Hair mussed, hickey on the left side of his neck and collarbone, goofy smile but clear eyes: hooked up with a girl, slightly drunk, looking at me weird…_

"What the hell is wrong with you?" James asked, not with hostility but with…concern? James seemed to be searching his face. Of _course_, his pupils were probably dilated. And he could feel a thin veil of sweat on his brow. Based on how James was looking at him, he could tell he was on something, so he surreptitiously put the bag of coke in his back pocket.

"Why are you insinuating that there is nothing wrong with me? I am fine, and everything is fine and you have no need to press me on the matter any further." Sherlock knew he saying too much way too fast, but he couldn't help it. All the thoughts of what to say came to him all at once, and his brain was going so fast that he had no time to pick which response he'd wanted to use, so apparently, he'd used them all.

"You…come with me." James said. Apparently he wasn't as dull as Sherlock originally thought since he obviously figured out everything was not 'fine' as Sherlock had (attempted) to lead him to believe.

Sherlock followed James out back, to the same alley where he had bought and snorted the cocaine. For some reason, it looked totally different. Perhaps it was the glare of the streetlight. Sherlock winced at the light, the dilation of his pupils causing sensitivity to light. James could see him better in all this light though, and he studied him until something clicked. Sherlock was about to make a smart remark about freezing to death in alley while waiting for James' brain to work, when James actually spoke up, tentatively at first.

"Are you…high?"

"No." Sherlock replied all too eagerly, all too quickly.

"Are you sure? Your pupils are like huge, and you're sweating, and you're talking at a bloody mile a minute. Are you sure everything is okay?"

Sherlock didn't answer him, not because he didn't hear, but because something was wrong in his mind palace.

See, within Sherlock's mind palace, there were rooms, and halls, and courtyards full of memories and information. There was a mud room of sorts, where he put information he needed presently but most likely not forever, and a sort of incineration chute, where all the meaningless deductions he made every day went, along with trivial facts, like when Mycroft's birthday was.

In a corner of the mind palace, there was a room that had been barricaded, reinforced, and marked with a warning of "Do NOT Enter." The problem laid in this particular corner of his mind palace.

Because it simply wasn't there. It seemed ever since he'd taken the cocaine the Vacuum had simply, stopped beckoning him, stopped trying to escape from its dungeon, stopped _existing_. God, this was a miracle. His hand subconsciously went to his back pocket, and he hoped the miracle powder was still there. It was. He checked his mind palace for the Vacuum once more. It was nowhere to be found.

Unfortunately, all this searching for the Vacuum made James all the more convinced that something was wrong. "Sherlock, look, you are unwell, and we should be heading back anyway…" James trailed off, noticing that Sherlock was not all there anyway. Why did he bother? HE tried to be nice, the odd student brushed him off. He ignored him, he felt bad, but also, Sherlock sort of seemed hurt. IT never came across on his face, but he looked it. And now they finally seemed to have some mutuality, since he invited Sherlock somewhere and he'd actually accepted, but the first thing Sherlock did was run off and do God knows what. He took his roommate's arm and headed him back towards the university and their dorm-room. James thought it was probably just a one-off, since Sherlock had never exactly been 'social' before, and he may have simply gotten carried away.

Sherlock however, still enamored with the thought that the Vacuum had simply vanished, decided that if a little was good, a lot was probably better, and that if sobriety brought on the disappearance of the Vacuum, it was to be avoided like the plague.

* * *

**Alright, I was going to wait till Thursday to put up this chapter, but you make me feel good about continuing this story. There are a few more chapters left for the flashback, then I think I'll go back and edit some earlier chapters, for spelling errors, and whatnot. Thanks for reading! :)**


	7. Chapter 7

**First off, so sorry about the late update. I meant to update on Friday, but I started chemo and needless to say, I got a little distracted. Alright, this flashback is only gonna last maybe two more chapters. Believe me I'm excited about John too. So instead of short little baby chapters, I'm gonna squish a lot together so we can get to John faster. Kay, read!**

* * *

"Tell me what you're on." James hissed.

"No, leave me alone." He didn't mean to sound harsh, it's just that James was distracting him, and he just wanted to look around.

Everything was gorgeous. The world wasn't so dull. It wasn't as though he was a freak anymore, but _normal._ He looked at all the passersby and so what everyone else saw. As if to prove this to himself, he looked at a passing woman. Red coat, high heels, pretty chestnut hair. All in all, pretty good looking. But he focused, and with very little effort, he deduced that she was an only child, who moved away from Scotland to escape an abusive father and that she was now on her way to her late-night job as an escort, although she had much respect for herself.

_This is…incredible, _he thought. _I have the best of both worlds…_ Expect for the fact that he couldn't seem to delete things very effectively (he found that he didn't really even want to) the cocaine was heaven-sent. He tried to practice deleting, just to see if he could function normally with the cocaine, it took some effort, but he finally managed to delete half of a tree. It was so damn funny, he cracked up and couldn't stop laughing.

James stared at him. His roommate never laughed. _Ever._ He hardly smiled, except after hearing about a murder on the telly that he managed to solve simply from the details the police released. So when Sherlock burst into manic laughter, James was afraid. Legitimately afraid. It seemed his roommate really had turned into a psychopath. James found he like the stoic emotionless Sherlock better, and resolved to get him off of whatever it was he was on.

Snow flurries started falling like frozen angels, and James tried to drag Sherlock to the dorm faster, before he could freeze to death. It seemed he was entranced by the chill in the air and the drops of frozen rain. Every little thing seemed to catch his attention, not subtly or discreetly like it did when he was sober. Sherlock seemed to visibly be enthralled with everything in the room.

"What's up with the freak?" Lionel sneered. He was just another victim of Sherlock's very public deductions, and since he was in vast company, Lionel like almost everyone else at school, _hated _Sherlock.

"Nothing he's fine. Just came back from a party, and he's a little out of it." James said dismissively, unlocking the door and shoving Sherlock—who was very interested in a potted fern—inside.

"Sherlock, you have to tell me what you took," James started, using a calm rational tone.

"Nope!" Sherlock said, smiling maniacly. He then stumbled past James, then looked at the spot where he tripped as though there were something there (there wasn't) then shrugging and going to his microscope. After he sat down, he was completely absorbed in whatever it was he was looking at, and didn't notice the little baggie fall from his back pocket.

James noticed it though, and his eyes widened as he went to pick it up. "Oh my god, is this it?!" he cried.

Sherlock just shushed him.

"What the hell is this, Sherlock!? Is this—is this _coke?!_ You're on bloody _coke!?"_ James practically shouted, his voice quieting every time he named the offending object.

"Yes."

"_Why?!"_

Sherlock just hummed.

"Why, Sherlock?" James demanded.

"I was bored."

* * *

The comedown was hell. Pure, unadultered _hell_. His head hurt, his body ached, and every time he touched something his nerves went into shock mode, like his every nerve was made of pins and needles. He hurt just lying in bed.

"You're gonna be late for class." James said

"Shut up. I'm not going. Get out and go quietly."

Shrugging, James made a quiet retreat.

Sherlock, in turn, retreated to his mind palace. Then, he decided that it was a bad idea. The Vacuum was back with a vengeance, and it beckoned him constantly. Everything he shoved in there, everything he could not quite delete, threatened to come spilling out (even the half-a-tree from the night before).

How could it be this bad? He had only comedown about an hour ago, and it was what, 8 o'clock?

He silently cursed the sun, the clouds, every living thing in a 100-mile radius, and that idiot who sold him the cocaine. HE didn't really curse himself. HE was just the victim.

What was worse, the Vacuum was spilling over into his conscious mind.

_Damn it,_ he thought.

He forced himself up and into the kitchen. James hadn't known what to do with the cocaine. Sherlock suspected he didn't throw it away out of some kind of twisted curiosity. Sherlock took the baggie from where James thought he had hidden it (under the sink, behind the cleaning supplies, inside a rubber glove).

Sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the baggie, Sherlock debated on what to do. On one hand, he had just forced himself out of bed to retrieve the bag of cocaine. He felt like he was melting from the inside out, but he had gotten up for it. That scared him. On the other hand, the Vacuum was bleeding through the thin veil between the world within his head and the world outside of it. That could not be allowed to happen again. The last time resulted in a panic attack and an attempt to have him institutionalized.

Sherlock decided the cocaine was certainly the lesser evil, and thus, he pulled it out and sniffed up 5 lines.

The Vacuum evaporated.

_That was close…_

* * *

James knew something was up with his roommate. For a while after the incident with the drugs, he'd been jumpy and anxious, and James suspected he had started up again. But he gradually mellowed out, and James decided it was nothing.

Unfortunately, James had been correct in his first assumption. Sherlock now had a regular dealer (not that idiot from the party): a man named Victor. HE gave him high quality coke, and Sherlock willingly paid for it. He also no longer snorted it, for two reasons. For one it was annoyingly common. He began to think of it as medicine, not some dumb party drug. He needed it, so that the Vacuum didn't pull him in. The second reason was more practical than the first (which was more about pride). He'd had one nosebleed too many and it was beginning to get irritating. So he started shooting up, and _boy _was that loads better.

Injection took the drug straight to the heart, and therefore to the brain and to the rest of him. He no longer got high, he started flying.

However, this new found medicine came with prices Sherlock didn't even notice until Mycroft started poking his fat arse into everything.

He'd gone home for Christmas, and that's when he'd noticed the change. Or rather, it'd been pointed out to him.

"Sherlock, darling, you're thin as a rail! Do you forget to eat up at school?" His mother asked.

"No, mother, I simply haven't the time."

"Are you sure?" Mycroft interjected. "Because you haven't shown up to classes regularly for a few weeks, if not months. And your grades are suffering for it."

"Don't you have a cake to inhale, Mycroft?"

"Enough!" their mummy chided. Both boys quieted.

Mycroft looked at his brother with a curious expression. There was something off about him…

* * *

After a week of not using while he was at home, Sherlock desperately needed a hit upon returning to school.

He didn't have enough money for his usual supply, but since he was a loyal customer, Victor gave him a hit on the house, and he paid for one to go. Mycroft would wire him money in a few days. He could last till then, he thought.

As soon as Victor left, Sherlock undid hid belt and tied it around his arm. Holding it tight with his teeth, he found a vein and slipped the needle in. pulling back on the plunger until he saw a flash of red, indicating that he had hit a vein, he pressed the cocaine down into his circulatory system, waiting for the needed release. In his desperation, and withdrawal-infused inobservance, he failed to notice a newly-installed CCTV camera, aimed right at him.


	8. Chapter 8

**Alright, people. Sorry about the late update and all that jazz. I think there is probably one more long chapter of flashback. Then we wil bounce back to the present. **

**Also, since someone asked, I am fine. I have leukemia, but I should be able to fight it off again. **

**lastly, I realized I have been doing disclaimers or anything. I haven't been sued or anything yet, so I assume BBC has some common sense and realizes that this is a fan_fiction _site and therefore _duh_ I don't own any characters but fine I'll start putting them in I guess. :P**

**I don't own Sherlock. there. **

**Okay, read!**

* * *

_Cocaine, of all things,_ he thought to himself. His baby brother was shooting cocaine. A million other questions crossed his mind. _When did this happen? How long had it been going on? Is he—god forbid—an _addict?

He turned down the avenue to Oxford. He made his way to his brother's dorm room.

He opened the door and looked at his little brother. Sherlock was sprawled on the chair in the sparsely furnished dorm. His eyes were open and his pupils blown wide. He stared at the ceiling and until he notices the layer of sweat and the rise and fall of his chest, Mycroft would have assumed he was dead.

"Sherlock," Mycroft started. But his brother's eyes were vacant. Mycroft's stomach clenched and he swallowed hard. He'd never seen his brother high, and it unnerved him. Sherlock seemed to be locked in his head, and Mycroft shook him in earnest, trying to wake him from his stupor. "Sherlock!"

"Mycroft." Sherlock said mockingly. "What are you doing here, what do you want? I'm busy, go away." He spoke all too quickly, his facial features were stone save his lips, which moved with a speed that was completely unnatural and quite obviously chemically induced.

"What are you doing? Destroying your life?" Mycroft tried to keep his voice calm, and succeeded for the most part, but his voice still shook a little when he looked into Sherlock's darkened eyes. His brother had been special to him for a long time. When Sherlock had been born, he had been fascinated. A little brother, at first, had been irritating, but like a present that would never become dull and never break. But he looked at his little brother now, and saw that he was, in fact, broken.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open at his brother's words. He couldn't know he had been so caref—damn. He'd forgotten his routine check of the area for CCTV cameras in his desperation. _No, _ thought. _It was haste, I just should have taken my time. I'm not addicted, it just helps when the boredom is about to swallow me up_.

"I don't know what you're talking about to if you'll excuse me," he said haughtily, attempting to get as far away from his brother as the dorm room would allow. But Mycroft blocked his path. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out an envelope, and from that he pulled out a photo. "I think the evidence begs to differ." In the picture, Sherlock had a needle in his arm, and a look of pure bliss on his face. He looked at the picture indifferently. "So now you know. Get to the point, Mycroft, you know how your attempts at drama irritate me."

"'So now you _know_?!'" Mycroft spat incredulously. "That's what you have to say for yourself? And as far as me getting to the point, my point should be fairly obvious. _Stop it._ I am meeting with Mummy later and I'd like to tell her that while you have recently acquired a new…_extracurricular activity_…you will be quitting soon."

"You're going to tell her?" Sherlock said, and for a split second he looked as though he had genuine concern for his mother's reaction to his new _hobby_, but it was gone just as quickly. "Fine, then there's no reason to stop me from doing this."

"Doing what?" Mycroft asked, rather pointlessly.

Sherlock went over to his recently replenished stash. A prepared needle already lay waiting for him. He didn't bother with a tourniquet. It wasn't entirely necessary, and it would ruin the effect. He found a relatively prominent vein, and after lining it up, he locked eyes with Mycroft, and pushed the drug in.

Mycroft found himself wanting to look away, but he couldn't. He watched his brother sigh with pleasure as the dopamine hit his nerves and coursed through his body, and he watched his finger twitched with excessive energy, and he watched the already thin, silvery-blue line of iris in his brother's eyes become almost non-existent as his pupils swallowed the rest, as the cocaine swallowed his brother.

"Sherlock…you…" he tried to find the words. He couldn't. He just couldn't. While Sherlock stared at him waiting for him to finish his sentence, looking half condescending, half incoherent, Mycroft found his voice. But the betrayal he felt by his brother's actions leaked into it, and the next words were not the ones he intended to say. HE wanted to tell Sherlock that he couldn't deal with him hurting himself like this, that Sherlock was too smart for something like this, and that Mycroft wanted to support him. Instead he said: "You disgust me."

Sherlock certainly didn't expect that. The condescension left his face, but the incoherence couldn't go anywhere. A new emotion flashed across his features: hurt.

Mycroft knew he couldn't fix this. He would only make it worse if he tried. Instead, he picked up his photo, and left.

After leaving Sherlock in his dorm, Mycroft took a deep breath to compose himself. Then he headed off to meet Mummy.

Sherlock, however remained shocked. He and his brother didn't have the best relationship but he'd always assumed deep down (_way_ deep down) that they cared about each other. Perhaps Mycroft didn't care about him as much as he thought. With nothing to lose, and with the Vacuum in his mind peeking through the cloud of dopamine, he sat with his stash on the couch (assuming that since James actually went to class that he'd be alone for a few hours) and decided he would destroy any and all feelings he could. He couldn't delete them, that would beckon the Vacuum, but he could drown them in artificial happiness, and while it was risky, considering how much he had already taken today, he wasn't truly worried. After all, since he disgusted Mycroft, no one would miss him if he slipped away as well.

* * *

"Hello, Mummy." Mycroft said, taking a seat opposite his mother. He had no idea how he was going to tell her about Sherlock. And about what he said to Sherlock. But he didn't need an intro, for his mother had always been a blunt, straightforward woman. Sherlock took after her in that regard. She said without preamble: "What's happened, Mycroft?"

He paused. "You said it was about Sherlock. Is he alright? Are they bullying him again?"

AS distraught as he was about Sherlock's situation, he couldn't help but smile inwardly at his mother's questions. Sherlock had always been a bullied kid, but he was in _university_ for god's sake. There would probably be no more beating up, no more ostracizing at lunch. They were all supposed to be adults. But despite what Sherlock thought, Mummy did care about him and she had worried every time he came home with a cut or bruise, even if she didn't show it.

"Mother, Sherlock is an adult, as are his peers. I am quite certain he is no longer being tarred and feathered. Unfortunately the situation that has arisen is much more delicate and unhealthy for him."

"Well what…Hello, Siger."

Mycroft's head whipped around. His father was striding toward the table. _No no no NO!_ Mycroft thought. Siger would only make things worse! HE and Sherlock had an awful relationship. It most likely began when Siger realized that Sherlock would become smarter than him. HE grew cold towards the boy and downright frigid when it became apparent that Sherlock was…a bit odd. Sherlock had always wanted to know why, where Mycroft always complied in order to get on his father's good side and stay out of trouble. Sherlock had trouble keeping his mouth shut, where Mycroft understood people better and knew when to shut up. Worst of all, Sherlock wanted to be his own authority, and Siger wanted to be in charge of everyone around him. For this reason, Siger Holmes _hated_ his youngest son. And he never hesitated to let Sherlock forget it. Sherlock never did. How could he, when Siger was sure to pound it into him four or five nights a week.

"Father," Mycroft all but grumbled. An already difficult task had just become impossible.

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	9. Chapter 9

Mycroft swallowed hard, thinking about how difficult this task had become, not only for him but for Sherlock. Siger had always thought his second son was and always would be a failure. This incident with Sherlock was the only proof he needed. Mycroft hated giving him that proof. But he stood to greet his father.

"Hello, Father. I wasn't aware you'd be joining us," Mycroft said without inflection.

"Mycroft was just about to tell me how Sherlock is doing at uni, Siger. Care to join us?" his mother asked trying to keep the mood light.

Siger scoffed. "I don't need to know how the boy is doing. I don't frankly care, as long has he doesn't sully our name by flunking out, I remain indifferent." He delivered this line with indifference as well. His feature remained schooled in a mask of unconcerned aloofness.

Mycroft's jaw worked, and his mother noticed his agitation, and tried to control Siger's remarks. "Siger, Mykie wants to tell us something."

Mycroft twitched at the nickname, but took a deep breath and went into his mentally prepared speech. "I've noticed Sherlock has been acting strangely lately. He's lost weight and he seemed easily agitated and distracted. I wanted to speak to him about it while he was home with us last week, but he avoided me. This morning, he was seen on a CCTV camera, buying and using drugs." He tried to say the last sentence with bravery, but memories of his little brother sitting alone in his dorm, high as a kite, and angry that someone cared enough to barge in, made it difficult.

"Oh my go—my _baby_." His mother whispered tears in her eyes. Siger's face was unreadable. "Have you talked to him, son?" he said.

"I went by as soon as I was shown the CCTV image. He was under the influence of the drugs, and under the impression that no one would care what he did." Mycroft said quietly.

His mother's tears welled up in her eyes, but didn't fall. Mycroft could still tell she was hurting. Their family did not express emotions well. In fact, to an untrained eye, it would seem none of them had any. But Mycroft and his mother were very upset that Sherlock had fallen so far, and that they hadn't noticed.

Siger, seemed absolutely fine. "What did you say to your brother? Or was he too high to listen to you?"

"I...I made it worse I'm afraid. I tried to tell him that I wanted to help him, but I told him that his actions disgusted me, and after that, I thought it best I left." Mycroft finished lamely. "Oh, Mykie, you didn't mean to hurt him." His mother petted his hand, which was about as affectionate as she ever got. Mycroft appreciated her sympathy, but it was rather useless at this time.

"Well then. What shall we do about this?" She said, trying to get back to practical thinking. "I suggest a rehabilitation clinic, and in fact, my secretary is pulling a list of high-ranking facilities as we speak." Mycroft said, grateful for hard facts and logic. Their family _really_ didn't handle emotion well. Mycroft's phone beeped. In fact, I think that's her now."

He moved to get his phone and open the email to peruse the list with his mother and find a suitable choice, but Siger stopped him. "Oh, don't fret over it, son. I'll take care of everything."

Mycroft didn't like the dangerous, ice-cold edge his father's tone had adopted. But arguing with him would only make things worse. HE reluctantly handed his father the mobile phone, but Siger simply sat it aside and excused himself. He then got into the car and was driven away.

* * *

Mycroft never found out his father's exact words to Sherlock. He would later find out that he had been disowned, disinherited, and that his father had beaten on him again. Siger also made sure the school officials found out about Sherlock's drug use and he was kicked out. On the same day, his father had the police pick him up. Sherlock was kept in jail for 30 days, and when he was released, he lived on the street for the better part of a year.

Mycroft tried to keep track of him, and was a bit angry about it all, because he had been led to believe Sherlock dropped out and committed some sort of theft whilst under the influence and landed in jail. Siger had fixed the records available to Mycroft, making it seem as though Sherlock left Oxford willingly and was arrested for theft, not an anonymous tip accusing him of drug use.

After a year on the street, most of which he either deleted, or was a lttle fuzzy on due to the drugs, Sherlock met Lestrade, an up-and-coming Sergeant who gave him a chance to stimulate his brain with something other than the cocaine and other stimulants he was experimenting with. Not long after that, he finally gave in to his mother, Mycroft and Lestrade, and entered a drug rehabilitation facility.

And not _too _long after that, he met John Watson.

* * *

It was for John Watson, and for Lestrade, and for Mrs. Hudson that he not only took that jump, but that he spent months wrestling with sobriety, so that he could go back to them clean and sober. He had been clean for 3 days, and that was proof enough for him that he could go back.

The plane took forever it seemed. Cravings and withdrawal plagued him all the way there. He recited the periodic table in his head, and when that didn't work, he read John's blog, from the very beginning, starting from the _Study in Pink_, and ending with John remembering the day he fell. And telling the world that he was not a fraud, and that he still didn't believe Sherlock was really gone, but more than that, he ended with "_I believe in Sherlock Holmes"_

That entry had been over two months ago. The anniversary on Sherlock's "death"

Sherlock went to sleep, trying not to think of his arrival in London. There was too much to think about, too much to take into account, too much to worry about regarding his return. Rather than confront his musings, Sherlock switched off the overhead light, and went to sleep for the first time in days.

* * *

_Here it is,_ he thought. most beautiful combination of letters and numbers he ever thought he'd see. All he had to do was go inside. HE still had the key after all. Sure, things might be rough at first, but he'd get past them. HE and John always did. He unlocked the door. He stepped inside. And it smelled like home, more than any other place he'd ever lived including his childhood home. Mrs. Hudson wasn't home. She was usually baking something at this time. He didn't smell cookies, cakes, pies, or anything of the sort. Ergo, no Mrs. Hudson. But John was there…

Sherlock could hear him moving around upstairs, probably making tea. And the telly was blaring. Sherlock took a deep breath. He'd been waiting over a year to return to his…friend, John Watson was his friend. And he was only a staircase away.

* * *

**Okay, If you think the ending to the flashback was a little abrupt it was supposed to be. This whole time in the present, while It was long and drawn out, Sherlock was strung out, but his getting clean is what brought it to an abrupt close. The events following Sherlock's disgrace from his family and his homelessness, including his encounters with Lestrade, will all be revisited by different characters later in the story. Thanks for reading! Review Review **


	10. Chapter 10

**BBC owns everything, blah blah blah. Thanks for all your reviews! Here's Chapter 10! Enjoy :)**

* * *

He got halfway up the stairs before his fear got the best of him. He would never admit it, but he was scared of what would happen upon entering the flat where so many memories of an actual friendship resided. He forced himself up one more step, but before he got to first landing, he turned around and slipped quietly out of the front door. He moved to sit in an alleyway, trying not to draw attention to himself. Breathing quietly, trying to control his heart rate and his apprehension. "I'm fine," he asserted out loud.

When he did calm down, his adrenaline stopped rushing and the cravings crashed down on him harder than they ever had before. _No, _he thought. _I am clean, I am fine, I don't need it._ He sat there, in agony, for a few more minutes, though it felt like hours. _I give up._

It was just once more, just so he had the courage to get through the door to his flat. Then, he and John would cases again. And he would play his violin at odd hours, and John would make tea, and Mycroft would barge in, and Molly would flirt with him obliviously, and everything would be back to _normal_. "Just once more…"

* * *

Back in 221B, with a fresh high, he grinned as he climbed the steps. _John will be so happy. He'd better not want a hug. Oh what the hell, I'll give it to him. _Stopping in the doorway, he sighed, and knocked quietly but firmly. Sure he could use the key, but that would ruin the _drama _of it all! He waited.

"I'm coming!" John called form within the flat. He sounded like he'd just woken up. Sherlock heard him shuffling towards the door. His heart speed up even more. After a year and a half, here he was, and John was coming to welcome him. This was it, the climax of it all.

The door swung open. John looked up at him. "No." John breathed. "No, no, no."

"Yes, John." Sherlock said.

"You...You're not real, you're dead. I saw you jump, I watched you die! I saw them put you in the ground!" John's voice rose to a shout. "You are DEAD!"

"John, after almost three years of following me around, your observational skills should at least be good enough to determine whether someone is dead or alive. Have you really gotten this rusty?"

"Only you can come back to life and have you first statement be a condescending one," John muttered. "It is you isn't it?" John said, his eyes shining with tears.

"Yes," Sherlock said, struggling to keep the sarcasm out of his voice for John's sake, even though his initial reaction to any type of emotion was to sass it away.

"My God." John said quietly. "I need to sit." He said definitively. And he did, sitting in his favorite chair. Sherlock took this time to observe the room. John had cleaned up the flat, his papers seemed to be all boxed up, and stacked neatly against the far wall. Sherlock Microscope hadn't been touched, his last slide still in place, though it seemed Mrs. Hudson had probably dusted it once in a while. Sherlock's chair hadn't moved. He felt strangely happy, that his things had been left alone, then again the cocaine was still shrouding each thought in pleasantry.

"Where the hell have you been?" John asked as Sherlock walked around. He noticed the smiley face was still on the wall, and the clippings about Moriarty still on the wall. Sherlock snatched them down, and tossed them into the bin.

"Here, and there, and everywhere," he said drolly, letting his addled mind take over the conversation for a bit, as he revisited the last year. Kill or be killed, it seemed it had been. He only killed once, and he had gone on a four-day coke binge afterwards. Whatever he may pretend, he was a murderer now, and all that Sally Donovan had said about him floated around in his mind.

"What an answer." John quipped. "I still can't believe it. I told you, I told everyone, 'he's not dead. He can't be dead.' And look at you—you're _here_. I can't believe you're here, Sherlock," he said, stepping forward and wrapping his arms around Sherlock's waist. Remembering his internal promise to let John hug him, no matter how uncomfortable he was. He did let him, and made a concerted effort not to cringe.

"Jesus, Sherlock, your hearts going a mile a minute!" John said, looking at him. "What, did you miss me?"

"I've just come back from the dead, moved through the icy streets of London whilst avoiding any police officers and CCTV cameras, and have seen an old…friend…before even seeing my brother, and you touched me. I don't like touching John. My heart may be running on adrenaline right now, there's no need for suggestion." Sherlock said, quickly and with his usual level of aloofness.

"As is the rest of your body, I'm sure. When's the last time you ate, Sherlock?" John asked tiredly, and Sherlock tiredly responded that he thought it was something like 3 days, and despite the fact that he was incredibly high even though he swore he would quit once back at home, everything was back to normal.

* * *

******Oh, Sherlock, what will I do with you?**

**Well, I had this halfway done, but I needed to put up chapter 9 first. So I did so, and as going to wait, but what the hell, you know? **

**Thanks again for your reviews, keep 'em coming! :)**


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